


The Good Samaritan

by ObsidianButterfly



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Fingering, Het, Masturbation, Oral, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed, Suicide Attempt, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianButterfly/pseuds/ObsidianButterfly
Summary: Recued by an attractive stranger, its not long before feelings of something more than simple gratitude begin to surface.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Henry Green is a sweet, adorable puppy and 100%deserved his happy ending and that's all I have to say on the matter, other than if I could have about ten of him come live with me I'd be fine with that.

The dark and murky water churning beneath you doesn't look particularly inviting, but anything at this moment is better than going back to the employ of Crawford Starrick and his cronies.

It would be so _easy_ , you think, glancing downwards as a barge trundles effortlessly through the waves; so easy just to let go of the concrete railing being you.

Balancing on one foot, you stick the other out over the ledge, a light breeze catches your clothing, tugging you ever so slightly forwards as if it's inviting you, urging you on; calling you downwards.

It would be all over in minutes, you would be _free_...

What would drowning feel like? A moment of panic has you hesitating, muscles tense and body shaking. Maybe the fall would kill you, if you were exceptionally lucky? You feel your fingers slipping from their hold, body anticipating the coming weightless drop. Closing your eyes, you exhale a long shaky breath and lean forwards.

You barely register the hum of distant voices around you, Londoners going about their daily lives as normal, but you are too focused on your task. Swallowing hard you squeeze your eyes tight shut and lick your lips, the air around you is suddenly charged with panic, voices seem closer, louder, but it's too late.

Or perhaps not.

Just as your fingers uncurl from the railing, your body lurching forwards, a loud cry of _'no'_ rings alarming close to your ear. Something large and solid barrels into you, knocking you sideways and away from the fall, pinning you against the precariously thin bridge ledge. A warm, heavy weight settles above you as you lie dazed against the stone, cheek pressed against the cool brick.

Heart hammering in your chest your stomach feels like it already took that long trip down to the water below, churning more rapidly than the currents of the Thames. Opening your eyes carefully, your find the bright afternoon sunshine is blocked by a tangle of white and black. A warm, male body covers every inch of yours, restraining you, securing you against the side of the bridge.

He’s clearly talking to you, dark gaze fixed in concern, his lips are moving but you don't quite have the faculties to focus on what he is saying as your pulse is still too busy still beating out a samba in your throat and ears are ringing from the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

It takes several confused moment to register that you are not currently dead, or foundering in the murky water of the Thames.

That is _all_ you needed, a bloody Good Samaritan spoiling your plans.

The man above you is looking at you with startled unease, his face is almost angry. He’s likely wondering what the hell you were doing, but you just continue to state at him, unable to move or speak.

A large, warm, palm cups your face thumb stroking gently against your cheek, it helps focus your mind, bringing your attention fully on him. His face softens in response, warm amber eyes wide with concern.

'Are you alright?' He asks. His voice is smooth, soft, and surprisingly pleasant.

He strokes your cheek with his thumb and your cooling skin tingles from his touch, a warm line lingering across your skin.

You can only nod dumbly.

'What were you _doing_?' He practically demands.

Surely he knew what you were doing? Why else would he grab you and drag you from the edge? He was likely just looking to fill the silence.

What did you say to someone who just tried to throw themselves off of a bridge? You probably wouldn’t know what to say either.

Turning your head, you glance carefully downwards over the lip of the walkway to the river below. Boats continue their journey to and fro, oblivious to the commotion above.

'Nothing I-I was just going for a walk.' You finally offer weakly.

Well, he asked a stupid question, he was going to get the obvious lying response.

The Samaritan eases off you gently, removing his very solid weight carefully and helps you to your feet, one hand keeping a firm grip on your elbow probably in case you were thinking of breaking away finishing your jump. Guiding you over the railings, there’s already a crowd of onlookers gathering, even carriages have stopped with drivers and passengers craning their necks to gawp at the spectacle.

Uncomfortable at being the centre of attention, panic quickly returns, your task has failed and you need to get out of here, quickly.

Wondering just how to extract yourself form this situation you quickly realise that it’s going to be made all the more difficult with the hordes of people now intently focusing on you. They stand and gawp, their chatter buzzing in your ear like angry bees and you want to scream at them, throw things, _rant_. You are not here for their amusement or entertainment. They don’t care. They all turn a blind eye to Starrick; they would all have turned a blind eye to you throwing yourself off of the bridge. Of all the crowds only one man decided to stop and help. You don’t want the false pity, their self-centred superiority, of course _they_ would never contemplate such an act, something like that is beneath them but will mutter sympathies and acknowledgement without actually making any difference at all. What a shame they would say, returning to their daily lives as your body would be dragged from the water.

You can just make out the distinctive blue of police uniforms through the throngs of crowds and decide that you need to leave before they, or other less-friendly people arrive. The police would likely be nice and sympathetic, steering you off gently, but at best you will be locked up in the asylum at worst you will be sent back to the care of Starrick. Neither of those prospects is particularly inviting.

The good Samaritans hand is still on your arm as he hums soothing mutterings in your ear, but you need to get away.

'Um - thank you.’ You mumble, trying to pull away and slip into the crowd, but his grip tightens. You glance down at the offending hand and the stranger quickly drops it with a sheepish expression.

'My apologies.' He offers awkwardly, face relaxing to appear non-threatening. 'Please, I could help.-'

'No, thank you.' You hadn't meant to raise your voice, or sound so rude, but his well-meaning interference is going to get you caught.

As if on cue you spot two large brutes heading your direction wearing the colours of Starrick's blighters. Drawn by the commotion, they know exactly who you are and are likely looking for a fat reward for capture.

Dread sets in, followed quickly by an almost-resigned sense of calm inevitability. It was too late now to run, too late to get away. One of the blighters has already threaded his way through the crowds and is at your side before you could even think of turning in the opposite direction and fleeing.

The blighters grip on your upper arm is a lot less friendly than the Good Samaritan that tried to help you. Little did your rescuer know he had made things worse in his bumbling attempt to help.

'There ye are.' The thug bites harshly in a thick cockney accent.

You shrink from his grip but he towers over you, a mountain of meat.

Fingers tighten painfully around your arm and you know there will be bruises left in their wake, but that's the least of your worries. You try and school your face to not show the flicker of pain from his touch as you turn to face your would-be saviour.

‘Cheers mate.' The thickest blighter says to him. 'My sister.' He nods in your direction, fingers pinching as if you didn't already know that you were supposed to play along.

'Not all there, ye know. Wanders off. I'll be seeing her home.'

Your rescuer clearly doesn't buy that poor excuse for a lie one bit, the suspicion clear across that soft, friendly face. His gaze flickers between the two men, clearly much larger and more well-armed than him.

You give him a neutral expression.  He'll likely leave it. A lie is easy to swallow when it doesn't affect you. He's done his good dead for today, why risk yourself further for an ungrateful stranger?

Still, the Samaritan surprises you.

His gaze drops hard to the brute holding you tightly, his voice is still quite but there’s an impatient firmness creeping in.

'Release her.' He states quite plainly to the gang members flanking you, as if there was no other choice in the world than to follow his instructions. His lip curls in response as the two brutes bristle at his words, and your rescuer is now looking much less friendly than he did towards you.

Unfortunately your would-be hero doesn’t have the look of any sort of gangster, and you don’t fancy his chances against these two. Although he’s tall, and broad shouldered, there doesn’t appear to be a lot of bulk to him with his lean physique and amiable personality.

You feel the two blighters prickle, their bodies tensing in preparation for fight. The air around you becomes charged with nervous energy; no doubt the crowd know something is amiss as well. 

'It's fine.' You try and reassure softly. He doesn't deserve to die for this; being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and just trying to help.  You wouldn't want his death on your conscious.

Those warm amber eyes slide to you, measuring you, weighing you, staring right into you with immeasurable scrutiny.

'We'll go home, brother.' You offer to the brute, who returns a predatory grin, happy at your compliance.

Your dark haired stranger gives you a questioning look, shrewdness behind those soft eyes. He eventually nods unhappily, resignedly turning to walk away and you breathe a small sigh of relief. He, at least, could walk away from this alive.

Your relief is quite short lived.

There is a blurring flash of white as a body places itself quickly between you and the brute, and you suddenly find yourself staring at the back of the dark head of the Samaritan. The grip- that was so tight against your arm- is suddenly not there and you feel yourself stumble lightly.

A ringing sound of metal on metal fills the air and Starrick’s henchman beside you stiffens abruptly, before sliding right to the floor.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out as you stare dumbly at the heap of bleeding man at your feet, unable to work out how he got in such a state. Blinking rapidly, you barely register the screams of the crowd and numerous figures rushing past in a bid to escape the fight.

The man who seemed so determine to ruin your day drops into a fighting stance, body tense and poised to attack.

Well maybe you were very wrong about this one? He certainly seems to _look_ as if he knew what he was going. Obviously your first impressions of this gentle, non-threatening charitable citizen were incorrect.

There is a flicker of curved blade as his arm lashes out towards the other blighter. A wide crimson ark gapes across a pale throat as blood spatters the road and, unfortunately, white tunic of your rescuer.  The second blighter falls to his knees before he even aimed his gun, weapon falling form his fingertips to clink against the pavement. The brute gurgles deep, almost black blood, and slumps sideways.

You watch him die with shock; barely registering two of Starrick’s thuggish, loyal gang have been dispatched without breaking a sweat.

'Come.' A male voice yells insistently in your ear and you turn to find strong fingers curling around your upper arm in a pinching grip. Your Samaritan is back looking at you intently.

'We must leave.' He states resolutely, trying desperately to pull you along with him at a hurried pace.

Pulse pounding in your ears and mind fuzzy, you hardly realise where you are, your feet feel like lead and you find yourself still stood beside the dead blighters, blood seeping into your shoes. However the distant flashes of blue and faint, low, whistling tell you that the police are coming and you need to move. _Now_.

The stranger is holding a hand to you, his kind face, anxious.

'Come.' He asserts again. 'We need to go.'

His palm is smooth and dry and warm in yours. No sooner had his fingers curled around yours, than you were pulled forwards, tugged along with the momentum of his body as you are practically dragged down the street.

The door of a black-coloured growler carriage is thrown open and you are ushered quickly inside before you can put up any protest, and door slammed firmly behind you. The vehicle jostles violently, the stranger obviously climbing up into the driver’s seat at the front, and urges the two chestnut horses that were lashed to it, forwards.

The growler takes off at an alarming pace, horse hooves clattering loudly against cobbled streets and thin, hard, wheels bouncing over the uneven road. The vehicle twists and turns, you are assuming he is dodging other traffic on the road, but can scarcely see out of the small windows. The distant cries of people and the faint siren of police whistles is all that alerts you to what is happening outside.

You are thrown around the back of the swerving carriage so much that you find it’s much safer to slide from the seat down onto the floor and press tightly against a corner.

Sitting in the gloom with your own heart hammering and mouth dry, you wonder if you had done the right thing, or swapped one bad situation for another. The prospect of being the captive of Starrick’s brutes was an unappealing one...and your own thoughts of simply falling off the bridge into the Thames were the better option. But now...were you any better than a captive with your current acquaintance? A man that just executed two men in public? Large and dangerous men, yes, but that wasn't the point. What else would the supposedly good Samaritan be capable of?

 

 

 

You have no idea how long the carriage careered through London’s bustling streets, taking corners sharply and accelerating across straight patches of road at breakneck speeds you thought not possible.

As you sit alone with the growing uneasy silence of your own thoughts you try and formulate a plan. You could open the door and try to jump; take your chances that you wouldn’t hurt yourself in the fall, or that the driver wouldn’t see you.

You could escape and be free of them all.

More likely, however, you will fall and break a leg, or get trapped under the moving carriage and then then you will be in a much worse position. Perhaps it would be best to wait until you have stopped and rush him as he opens the carriage door?

Would you be any match for him? The Samaritan is not a particularly big man, and it’s not as if you are planning on arm wrestling him. A swift kick while he is preoccupied and you could run past to the safety of the crowds.

It would seem a poor way to repay someone that was only trying to help. He did try and assist by preventing you from jumping off the bridge, and he wasn’t going to allow two of Starrick’s gang to simply drag you off…but still, could he really be trusted?

The carriage eventually trundles to a slow speed, cantering along for a while at a steady pace until it finally comes to a complete stop. You hear your rescuer dismount and you assume that he’s about to approach the door. It’s now or never, what were you going to do?

The door opens just a crack, slowly, and you ready your feet to kick out at the first sign of trouble. A face peeks cautiously inside the gap, but still keeping distance, glancing towards the padded seats to find them empty. The strangers gaze drops to the floor when he sees that you are not there, taking in your curled up position with a measure of shock.

‘Are you alright?’ He asks softly with a small frown creasing his brow.

You nod, feeling foolish for having your feet raised ready to strike someone so clearly non-threatening. Then again, you had seen what he did to those brutes without any measure of effort.

‘Fine.’ You offer, hesitantly.

He motions you forwards towards the door, opening it a little wider to let the darkening evening sky trickle through and to give you space to move freely around him.

‘We should have lost them. No one followed us, I made sure of it.’

He seemed so certain, but you suppose that you _had_ been bouncing about back of the growler for what felt like hours.

‘You are safe from them for now.’ He offers.

But what happens to you next time some of Starrick’s men catch up to you, you think? However that is a problem for another time, right now it looks like you have no choice for the moment but to accept this stranger’s help. If you ran away from him where would you go? How long before other blighters found you? And how long before hurting yourself was the only feasible option again?

Sliding out from the back of the carriage you ignore his offered hand and step into the street. From what you can see of the dirty cobbles and shabby buildings you are certainly not in the Westminster district anymore, but its likely easier to get lost among the crowds and riff raff and back alleys of less desirable places than the affluent.

Leading you across the road, your rescuer makes no more attempts to get uncomfortably close, keeping his distance and leading the way.

You turn a corner from an alley onto what you are assuming is a main street, to be met with a closed curiosity shop front, displaying all manner of unusual items in the window.

The building is dark, no lights shine from inside and you are surprised to watch the stranger pull a key from tucked inside his robes and open the door. A faint bell inside alerts to the opening and echoes eerily through the empty room.

‘Come in.’ The stranger motions enthusiastically, and you find yourself taking a deep breath, steeling your nerve as you step gingerly inside the darkness.

The door is quickly locked behind you and a few gas lamps lit to ward of the coming night, but it only results in some weird and wonderful shapes silhouetted against the walls from the curiosities lined in the cabinets.

‘Is this yours? You ask hesitantly, your voice uneasily echoing in the dim silence of the shop.

‘The shop? Yes. I own and run this. And live upstairs above it.’

You are led through the main shop floor behind a heavy, polished wooden counter top. A hidden door is revealed and behind it a deep red velvet curtain pulled back to get to a staircase.

The Samaritan leads the way and you find yourself climbing the stairs automatically, wearily dragging your body upwards as your legs feel like led and your stomach is still currently somewhere in the back of that carriage. After the day’s events you don’t have the strength or capacity to question what you are doing anymore, you just follow the broad shoulders of your new friend and if he was leading you to Mr Starrick, or some other gruesome death upstairs, then so be it.

You are led to a small flat, cramped with all manner of interesting curios just like the shop downstairs and decorated in bright colours and odd statues that you assume is more from his homeland than England. You find yourself standing dumbly in the middle of the room, watching the stranger potter about his home, feeling as if you are intruding on his space.

He busily lights lamps and a fire, and soon a bright wash of flame dances merrily in the hearth, radiating waves of warm comfort towards you. The stranger suddenly stops his busy flurry of motion and turns to you with an abashed look, ‘Oh, my apologies, where are my manners? Can I get you something to eat? Some water maybe? Tea?’

His voice shakes you from your stunned, silent, contemplation. You shake your head quickly, unwilling to quite trust or accept anything that he was planning on giving you. You had been content to blend into the background and remain unnoticed, unfortunately now he seems to have his full attention on you again.

‘Please take a seat.’ He motions you to a plush chair but you don’t dare make a move towards it.

The Samaritan watches you for several heartbeats, eyes softening and he nods. He sits himself in another chair by the fire, a good distance from you in order to give you the illusion of space.

‘Introductions are in order I believe. My name is Henry Green.’

He places one hand over his chest and does a little half-bow, which is surprisingly graceful considering that he is sitting down.

‘Would you like to tell me your name, Miss?’

Well it couldn’t hurt, not now that you are here. You sit automatically, for a lack of anything better to do with yourself, stiff and perched on the edge of the couch, and tell him your name.

You watch him keenly, but he remains seating, hands folded in his lap. When he moves, he moves slowly, carefully. You get the impression that your Good Samaritan is trying very hard to appear non-threatening, but the manner of his dress is unfamiliar and unusual, and you know from watching those brutes die earlier that he has at least one concealed weapon on him.

‘What were you doing out there?’ He stresses, clearly at a loss for suggestions.

Your gaze drops to your lap, unable to meet those warm amber eyes. What could you say? How could you explain? It had seemed so clear earlier, so right in your actions. Now you were still wanted and two men were dead and you were now stuck with a seemingly good-natured, willingly helpful man. But how could you trust that Starrick didn’t practically own him too, like he owned almost everything, and everyone, in London?

You found your traitorous lips mumble ‘Starrick’ before you could stop them, brain still cloudy and hazy from all the overwhelming events of today.

There is the smallest noise of surprise at your mentioning of the name, and your gaze crawls up from your lap to meet his. That certainly got the Samaritan’s attention. He is the most animated that you have seen him.

Mr Green inches forwards to hover on the end of his seat, deep gaze intent on yours.

‘Crawford Starrick?’ He clarifies.

You don’t even need to elaborate, and you suddenly have the feeling you have said all the wrong things, however Mr Green only nods slowly, fingertips tracing across his lips and palm rub his jaw as he contemplates. ‘That makes sense, those were his men.’

He seems to be calculating behind that gentle face and you suddenly have the feeling that he wasn’t very fond of Mr Strarrick, at all.

He finally shakes his head a little, distant expression back focusing on you. ‘Sorry. You were in his employ I take it?’

You can only nod, mouth queasily dry.

‘Do not worry’, Mr Green reassures, ‘Starrick is no friend of mine. If his men were to find this place then it’s not just you that would be in trouble.’

That thought doesn’t exactly fill you with comfort. It seems that you have swapped one desperate situation for another.

‘Well, there I not much we can do tonight. You are no doubt tired and weary and we are both unfortunately covered in blood.

Again, that wasn’t exactly _your_ doing, but you suppose that this Samaritans help has meant that you spend another night free.

Mr Green disappears for a time, leaving you in the chair by the fire and with a cup of hot tea that you didn’t ask for, but is ushered into your hand anyway. You sit and watch the flames dance, contemplating the very strange turn of events for today. You had woken up so sure of the course, of what would happen to you, but now everything was in chaos and you had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

Your rescuer returns in a fresh tunic, removing the evidence of blood from his person, still in a surprisingly upbeat and cheerful mood. He seems like the kind of man who always has a pleasant disposition, no matter what.

'I have heated some water and filled the bath if you would like to get cleaned up.' He offers solicitously sand you are slightly taken aback by such thoughtfulness, but also such forwardness.

You are shown to a startlingly large and spacious bathroom, considering the fairly small size of the flat. A large copper bath with rolling top is nestled in one corner, steam gently rising from the surface.

Mr Green hands you a large, fluffy towel as he ushers you through the door and shows you where everything is. 'Please, take your time. If you need anything then let me know.'

You notice that there is no lock on the bathroom door and turn to him with a suspicious look. He follows your gaze, his expression humble when he realises what you are looking at.

'Oh. It’s only ever me here, I-I never got around to adding a lock...’ He mumbles, almost embarrassed.

Was it really an oversight or was this the start of why he really wanted you to follow him home. Attacking you in the bath seemed so…out of character and too much effort for what he had done, but how much did you really know about this man?

'Don’t worry, I’ll leave you quite alone-‘ He pauses, ruminating over a potential solution to the fact you are unlikely to feel very comfortable being vulnerable and submerged in water in a strangers house ‘-I will go downstairs to the shop!' He concluded. ‘I have a few new things to price and catalogue.’

You don’t quite feel up to getting naked in a strange place, with a strange man, and stare at the offending bath tub with trepidation as Mr Green heads towards the door.

He watches you with a sympathetic expression but suddenly smiles brightly, a flash of perfect white teeth as an idea had clearly struck him. He suddenly waves a finger.

‘'I’ll sing.' He enthuses. 'You can tell exactly where I am as you will be able to hear me at all times!'

'It’s ok, you don’t-' you begin to say, but he’s already closed the bathroom door and his voice is now muffled through the heavy wood. 

Taking a deep breath you sit on the edge of the tub, surveying your surroundings and wondering how on earth you had you gotten here. It was nice to be alone again for a bit, to enjoy the silence of your own thoughts.

What a strange turn of events. Your Samaritan seemed trustworthy enough, but he appears almost too-eager to appear non-threatening and nice. You couldn't quite allow yourself to fully relax or put your trust in him just yet.

A soft voice floats through the doorway drawing your attention. He is actually singing. You almost giggle. The words are not English but the tune seems a happy one. You hear the singing become more distant as Mr Green obviously moves through the living room and down the hallway, probably heading towards the stairs to go down to the shop below.

After several minutes, making sure he was at a safe distance, you strip off your dirty, ragged and blood stained clothing and sink into the pleasantly warm water. Aching muscles practically sigh in pleasure as you rest and begin scrubbing the dirt from your skin.

Despite reservations, you relax. Mr Green’s voice is still very far away; you almost can’t hear him over the splashing of water, so he's not likely to barge in on you at any point.

You lie there comfortably until the hot water begins to cool and your fingers wrinkle, for a moment you might have actually drifted off to sleep. Suddenly a sharp bang on the door startles you and you slip down, submerging under water. Water steaming down your face, you come up coughing.

'Sorry to bother you.' The Samaritans voice calls through the door.

‘Don’t come in!' You yell in response, frantically splashing around the water and fearful that he's about to walk straight in on you naked in the bath. It was stupid of you to think he wasn’t going to be like all the other men you have come into contact with.

'Do not worry; I am not coming in.’ He insists eagerly. ‘I just wanted to leave you some clothes for you. Apologies that they are men’s, but they are clean. I’m afraid it’s been a while since I had a...apprentice here.'

What did he mean by apprentice? But you supposed you couldn’t very well put on the dusty ripped clothing you had on today.

'They are right outside.' Mr Green offers and you hear a gentle song disappearing out of the flat again.

Sighing you drag yourself out the water.  Wrapping the towel securely around you, you open the bathroom door just a crack. A pile of clothing lies neatly folded on the floor and Mr Green is not in sight. Snatching at them quickly, you disappear back inside to change. 

Once clean and presentable and in your new clothing your rescuer finds you poking about the bookshelves in his living room. It's already pitch black outside and must be growing quite late.

'That's better.' He says glancing over you. 'As I say, I am sorry about the style.'

To be honest being dressed as a man will probably help hide you better. A cap maybe, to hide your hair and face is all you will need.

'How about some dinner?' He offers, but you quickly shake your head. You don't think you could face it, stomach still uneasy.

Mr Green motions you to sit at a small round breakfast table.

‘I gather the prospect of returning to Mr Starrick is…less than pleasant. But there must be other options to jumping into the Thames, hmmm?'

You make no comment, eyes downcast, still feeling a little ashamed at contemplating killing yourself, which has essentially caused all this hassle for him.

'You have a place here, for as long as you like.' He offers, and you glance up, meeting those molten chocolate-gold eyes.

'I couldn’t.' You object.

'As long as you like.' He states firmly, cutting off your protest with a small smile.

'If you wish, I have friends outside of London that may be of assistance getting you out the city and settled elsewhere. '

That-that sounded too good to be true. But how far out of London did Starrick’s reach go? Could to be assured you would be safe? And, more importantly; what would it _cost_ you?

You fix the Samaritan with a pained look, 'I don't have money.'

'Neither do I.’ He grins, smile faltering at the serious look on your face.

He clears his throat, offering a gently smile and reaching out to gently pat your hand before quickly pulling away. 'You don’t require any money. I wouldn't see anyone suffering at his hands.'

Perhaps you are just too suspicious, but Mr Green seems far too good to be true. He is handsome, you will give him that. Perhaps in his late twenties with dark brown skin and jet black hair falling in waves to his collar, there is the barest graze of stubble across his strong jaw line with full lips and kind eyes, what’s more is his amiable and friendly nature. This wasn’t a man that would survive well in Starrick’s London, but here he was, offering help to strangers.

'You know what he is, this Starrick?' He asks, gently.

You frown, glancing at him suspiciously; there was more to this man than meets the eye. The clothing, the iconography on his belt, his cuffs, the weapons...your eyes widen in sudden, horrific, realisation.

'Assassin.' You hiss at him. How could you have been so stupid!

Mr Green looks shocked as you tumble from your seat, scrambling quickly off the floor and away from him, but he still moves to help you up.

‘No, please, I won't hurt you.' He insists.

You want no part of their fight. You have swapped one grievous position for another, and watch him warily but he stands quite still, palms raised cautiously as if he is approaching a feral cat.

Mr Green indicates you to sit back down at the table with a soothing tone. 'You have nothing to fear here.'

That was easy for him to say. Now you know how he was able to take on those thugs so easily, and how he managed to appear form nowhere to save you. Those were some quick reflexes. Now you know those were assassin honed reflexes.

‘We will sleep on it tonight, and tomorrow I will see who I can contact about helping you leave London unnoticed.’

You open your mouth to protest again. You couldn’t take any more help from him, not more than you have already, and you really have nothing to pay him back with but your objection is waved away with a casual gesture of his hand.

‘Nonsense. Let me see what I can do first. If you are so concerned with returning any favours then you could tell me everything you know about Crawford Starrick, any people working for him or his businesses. Really, no details will be too small.’

You suppose that you could manager that, but you are not sure what kind of information may be useful, or what your limited knowledge could really provide. You will think on it, and tomorrow try to outline what you know.

Mr Green shows you to a door just off of his living room. As you peer in the new room you can make out a cluttered bedroom just as exotically decorated as the rest of the flat you have seen. A very large and comfy bed, full of throws and cushions, sits against one wall.

He waves you into the room while he stays outside the doorway. ‘Make yourself comfortable.'

You glance back to a pile of blankets and pillows that has been left out on the couch.

'Is this your bedroom?' You ask, glancing around the decor. It’s the only other room you hadn’t seen, other than the kitchen.

'Please, consider it yours for the time being. I will sleep here.' He offers, indicating the couch by the fire that you had been sitting on earlier.

Now you just feel guilty. 'I can't kick you out your own bed after everything that you have already done.'

Mr Green smiles softly, encouraging you further into the bedroom. 'Please, I insist.'

'No.' You state firmly, shaking your head and crossing the room before planting yourself down on the couch. 'I'll be fine sleeping here.'

Your Samaritan gives you a look, clearly unhappy, a small frown appearing between dark eyebrows. 'I can't have a lady sleeping out here when I am in there.’

'Honestly, you have done enough. I'm not kicking you out your own bed too. I'll be fine here.' You curl under the covers as if to settle the issue, pulling the blanket over your legs. 'This is comfier than anything I have slept on in weeks.'

Mr Green doesn't look convinced, but he has no choice. He bid you a reluctant goodnight and disappears inside his room with candles, leaving you blissfully alone and curled up in front of the fire.

How he expects you to sleep, you have no idea. Plumping a few pillows under you, you lie watching the faint sliver of light from under his bedroom door, determine to stay awake, no matter how exhausted you were. There’s no way you could sleep knowing that an assassin was in the same building. Someone who could easily kill someone else without a second thought.

Mr Green probably wouldn't attack you in the middle of the night, he had went to a lot of trouble to help, but probably wasn't a _certainty_ now was it.

The bedroom door suddenly creaks open and you all but hide under the covers, peering out to watch your rescuer pad barefoot through his living room. Your heart hammers as you observe him, fearing the worst, but he pays you no attention, instead making a beeline for a set of bookcases on the far wall. He has removed his shoes, his belt. Left in long loose tunic and baggy trousers, he seems more relaxed, at ease in the comfort of his home. He selects a few heavy-looking tombs and heads back towards the bedroom door, glancing your way on the couch.

'Still awake I see.' He says with a small chuckle.

You mumble ‘yes’, pulling covers up to your neck as if they could protect you from this infuriatingly difficult to predict stranger.

Crossing the room, Mr Green squats carefully beside the couch, putting him at eye level. 'I know this must be difficult, and a strange place to be, but try and get some sleep, hmmm?'

You nod mutely and he gives you a soft, understanding smile. 'Can I get you anything?' He asks.

'No thank you, Mr Green.'

'Please, Henry is fine’ He insists. ‘There are plenty of books, help yourself to them if you find sleep still alluding you.'

With that he pads back to his bedroom and closes the door.

Tiredness and exhaustion eventually overcome you and you find yourself dozing off anyway, despite all your reservations.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning you are awoken by your stomach growling as the faint smell of goof food wafts through the room. Blinking back sleep you groggy sit up on the couch, fear gripping you for an instant as you wake in an unfamiliar place, but you are met by Henry's cheerful voice.

'Good you're awake. Come, try some breakfast, it’s the most important meal of the day.'

Slipping out of the covers carefully, you sit yourself at the small round breakfast table where Mr Green piles your plate with what you assume is scrambled eggs and toast.

You try and not shovel down your food in an unladylike manner but you probably fail.

Just as you take a rather large bite, Henry asks; ‘I wonder if you could do me a favour?’

The food quickly turns to ash in your mouth and all at once seemingly solidifies into a hard lump that you can’t swallow. So here is comes, it was only a matter of time. No one helped for free before they asked something of you, you just wonder if it was anything like what Starrick demanded.

Mr Green watches you carefully, face relaxing into a friendly smile to try and easy the blow of what he is saying.

‘I need to go and send some telegrams to my colleagues, just to see if anyone can help you. If you don’t mind could you watch the shop while I’m gone?’ He asks, hopefully.

Oh. That was all?

On second thoughts, that may be worse. You know nothing about running a shop and tell him as much after swallowing down your mouthful of food with difficulty.

Henry waves and elegant hand at your concern. ‘Ah, no need to worry. In the unlikelihood that anyone actually comes in while I’m away all the prices are on everything, take their money and press the leaver on the till and give them their change. Easy.’

Easy? Easy for him to say. He was being very trusting with his money and his property to a complete stranger he had known for all but a day.

You shake your head, disbelieving. ‘You are very trusting, Mr Green.’

‘You say that as if it’s a fault.’ He smirks at you, the light catching the gold earring he wore.

‘What if I just take your money, and as many goods as I can carry, and disappear?’

He shrugs, still watching you with a hint of a smile. ‘I like to think that I’m a good judge of character.’

How was this man still alive? How had someone not beaten, or killed him, or simply placed his trust in the wrong people at the wrong time. Starrick’s London was not a place for a man like this, assassin or no.

Another, uneasy thought suddenly hit you. ‘What if any of Starrick’s cronies show up? You ask, nervously.

‘Do not worry. They have no idea I’m here.’

He sounded so sure of that. You suppose that he did go to great lengths yesterday to ensure that you were not followed.

Handing you a key, Henry gives you a gently pat on the arm. ‘If you feel unsafe, at any time, just _run_. Whitechapel is a big area, you can get lost in the crowds and alleys, and any local will be able to redirect you back to the shop later on when you think the coast is clear.’

Unable to come up with any other plan, or argument, against his exasperatingly cheerful positivity, you agree to watch the shop for him while he runs errands.

‘I hopefully won’t be long, and will return with some good news.’ Henry finishes, leaving with a slice of toast between his lips.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Unexpectedly, but surprisingly pleasantly, days turn to weeks in Henry's care. You relax more as you get to know him; a man with a kind heart and gentle nature, but you feel slightly guilty at all the help he has so freely, _unhesitatingly_ , provided.

As a small thank you, you make sure the flat is clean, and continue watching the shop when he has errands to run, and try and help with cooking and chores when possible, even when the assassin tries heartily to dissuade you.

'You are not my maid.' He reprimands affectionately, as you clean up any chaos of paperwork and plates and books left behind by him, but you are eager to earn your keep. You can't continue to live in his home, eat his food, and taking his money, guilt-free.

Thankfully, you have kept under the raider from the blighters, and Mr Green doesn't seem inclined to draw their wrath either. Oddly, you haven’t noticed much activity from…profession. For an assassin he does surprisingly little…assassinating.

You also give up all the information that you have on Starrick, his work, and employees, often forgetting little snippets and glad that you can add them in as the weeks go by. It's not much, but Henry is extremely grateful for all the little details and advises that it will help his cause. It would seem that he works for nothing more than ridding London of the Templar’s corruptive influence.

Over the weeks that you have hidden safely with Henry, he makes plans for you to leave London with other assassins in areas outside of the Blighters influence. His friends in the countryside have assured that they can set you up with some temporary accommodation and perhaps find you a low-key job that won’t draw too much attention. However, as the correspondence continues, and plans slowly made, you find yourself remarkably happy with the arrangement that you already have. Henry is sweet, and funny, and _unfairly_ attractive. You were more than a little afraid that you were falling in love with him, but push that quickly from your mind as a foolish notion. There is no evidence he feels anything for you other than pity, or sympathy if you were feeling charitable. It would be unfair to continue abusing his hospitality; you will need to leave at some point as you can’t possibly stay here indefinitely.

Your increasingly developing feelings for your rescuer are only made all more difficult to ignore after a particularly unfortunate series of events.

The sky outside is pitch black and fog covers the street of London. The shop had been closed up for the night. Henry disappeared on an errand hours ago and should have been home long before now.

Home; funny how quickly you had started considering this your home as well.

Despite Henry’s occupation, and the fact that he could certainly take care of himself, you worry about what could have happened to him. Perhaps he ran into a group of Blighters? Would he currently be at the mercy of Starrick’s Henchmen? You shouldn’t worry about him so much, but you find yourself doing so anyway.

After fretful hours, where you imagine all kinds of horrible things, Henry finally arrives back, dirty and dishevelled, limping, and with a nasty cut across his forehead. 

'Blighters. A rather large group of them.' He offers as an apology for all your worry, with a characteristic easy-going smile.

He was trying to make light of it, but his wince as he sat, and small hisses of pain when he tried to walk, gave away how injured he was, and how close a call the attack had been.  He confessed that he had spent hours wandering the streets in effort to shake off any continuing pursuers.

Throwing back the covers strewn across your makeshift bed, you encourage Henry to sit on the couch while you grab a bowl of clean water and scraps of cloth to clean up his wounds.

You try and be as gentle as possible but Henry makes for a terrible patient, fussing, refusing to sit still, and constantly wriggling in your grasp as you dab the blood off of him.

'I'll stay here tonight.' He mutters, glancing at your bedding that he was currently sitting, and bleeding, upon.

It was an old argument. One that he had, so far, not been able to win.

You fight not to sigh. He was the injured one; he should be worrying about something else. 'We have been over this.'

'You wouldn't argue with a wounded man, would you?' He offers with a grin, voice playful.

You almost smirk at his innocent-puppy expression, if he thought for one minute that you would buy that. 'I would and am.'

Rolling his eyes, the assassin tries a more serious approach. ‘Please?’

'You are hurt, Henry, you are not sleeping out here tonight.'

As clean and patched up as able, you help him to his bedroom, unwilling to cave to his demands, injured or not. It’s clear that he is not leaning anywhere near his full weight on you as you shuffle the few steps from living room to bedroom, and you can feel the strain and slight shake in his muscles as he limps forwards.

‘I dislike having you out there on that uncomfortable couch.’ He confesses as you pull back the covers and ease him into bed. ‘You are too stubborn.’

‘I’m fine.’ You reassure, and you were. You were happy, and content, and had more than ever before. ‘And you are one to talk, _I’m_ stubborn?’ You raise a sceptical eyebrow and he chuckles. He was just as bad as you and he knew it.

Tugging the covers up over him, Henry will just need to sleep in his clothes. He was in no condition to try and struggle out of them and you will not be crossing the line at attempting to undress him either. That might be a far too intimate step in your relationship for the pair of you to handle.

‘It is a big bed. We could share.’ He compromises.

You swallow, hard, mouth drying up at his unexpected suggestion. You may have had one or two fantasies regarding sharing his bed, but those were definitely not in relation to sleeping.

‘Not a good idea.’ You shake your head, trying to sound nonchalant and not like the fact he had just suggested torturing you, slowly. Having him so close, sleeping beside him and not making a fool of yourself would be impossible. Not to mention the increase in wet dreams about the man was likely to be huge.

He looks at you, amber eyes so innocent. He really has no clue why it would seem weird you sharing a bed with him. If it were any other man then you would accuse him of thinking of an excuse to have you near, to letch on you, or try something on, but Henry is oblivious. He only wants your comfort.

You shake your head again as he continues to plead. He is an impossible man.

Henry pats the large space at his side, bribing you with his injuries.

Eventually, you relent in the face of his determination, retreating back to the living room to grab your pillows from the couch. Reluctantly you slide carefully into the bed beside him, ensuring an adequate enough space so that there’s no accidental touching.

There no way you can sleep like this, you think as you lie staring up at the dark ceiling. You can’t relax, not so close to him, not with the warmth and smell of his body so close. This is far too _awkward_.

As you lie there in the dark, sweating over your embarrassment you can hear the heavier breathing of Henry somewhere beside you. His own body is stiff and ridged too, but that might be more to do with his injuries making him uncomfortable than your own guilty thoughts.

‘Can I get you anything?’ You ask softly, voice dangerously intimate in the small, dark, room.

‘No. Thank you.’ Henry assures but you can hear the strain in his voice. Something must be hurting.

‘What about some water and painkillers from the kitchen?’

There is a brief, considering pause.

‘You wouldn’t mind?’ He asks guiltily for making you get out of bed.

Without answering, you slide out of bed and bring him back his water and something for his injuries.

‘Thank you.’ He says solicitly.

With Henry more comfortable you retreat to your own side of the bed, still fretting over sleeping in here, with him.

As you toss and turn through the night, you try to move slowly, carefully, as to not jostle or wake him, but every actions seems impossibly magnified. You wonder if he is finding sharing his private space unusual too, but all you can think of is what it would feel like to snuggle closer to his warm, manly-smelling body.

It’s a very restless night, all of your own doing, but after Henry’s injury’s he was most insistent that you could not go back to the couch, even once he had recovered fully.

It was more comfortable in the bed you will admit, but still very unnerving how easily you had fallen into a routine. It was common for Henry to stay up reading well into the night, propped up on pillows and with an array of books spread around him, which you were only too happy to lie in your own little corner watching him. The flash of pleasure in those warm amber eyes when reading, or the little smirk gracing his lips, and the confident, _sensual_ , caress of his fingers across the cover and down the spine of his books all contributed to your already over active fantasies regarding the man.

He collected flowers, all kinds of common and rare specimens and was only too happy to show you how to dry and press them carefully into the leather bound pages. Which explained the occasions where you could swear that you could sense the faint smell of lilies, or tulips, or irises from him? When you ventured out into the streets of London you were sure to grab a few blooms you encountered, which he always accepted with a shy-but -grateful smile.

For the most part it was innocent enough sharing not only the flat but the bed, although there had been a few awkward incidents where you had unknowingly wriggled closer during the night and awoke to find yourselves sharing the same pillow and _intimately_ close. There were also instances where, during your tussled sleeping, Henry had wound an arm around your waist.

That had actually been quite a…pleasant morning, wrapped in his embrace, the warm solid line of his body cradling yours, his breath tickling the back of your neck. He had blushed, and stuttered, and apologised _profusely_ , and spent the rest of the day continuing to apologise for it, despite your protest that there really no need. Accidents happen.

It was these accidents that you really, really, hoped might just happen again, but your own traitorous brain and dirty wish fulfilment was a jinx on you and all of your happiness.

You had awoken in the middle of the night with something sharp digging into your hip. Assuming that you had fallen asleep on top of one of Henrys books again, you reached down under the covers to grab it and toss it to the floor.

What your hand had enclosed around was most definitely _not_ a book. Just as firm, but with an altogether softer surround, a sharp groan from Henry confirmed just where you had placed your hands on his body.

Cheeks bursting hot in embarrassment at the realisation of his arousal, the only way forward was to act as if it never happened and retain a false cheery bravado when dealing with Mr Green the next morning.

A few uncomfortable days were spent not looking each other in the eye, and maintaining an unnaturally forced distance at your respective sides of the bed, but it got you thinking more about him…was it because of you? It was likely a natural bodily occurrence for all sorts of reasons but what if he thought of…

You try desperately to shake it from your mind. Henry never said anything, so you would not either. There was no denying the pair of you had gotten very close over the weeks spent in his care, and you were very fond of him. You could have sworn that you could feel his gaze on you as you lay in bed drifting off to sleep, or when you awoke in the morning, but a glance in his direction and he always seems to be sleeping, or his mind on other things.

No, you were being silly; your crush on him was unfounded and _clearly_ not reciprocated.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

Breathing deeply, you roll over on the soft mattress, too warm to slip under the covers and in nothing but an oversized shirt. Your mind churns as does your stomach, feeling guilty at your actions and more than a little sorry for yourself.

How could you be so _stupid_? Throwing yourself at a man who had done nothing but try to help you? You had embarrassed him, and yourself.

Despite the constant battle that your feelings for him were unwarranted, and certainly unreturned, it had not stopped you kissing him.

You were an _idiot_ , you chide yourself.

You don’t know quite what had made you do it. It was nothing special, no reason or specific thing that he had done that day that you could pinpoint just _why_. It had just seemed so _right_ , the way Henry looked at you, his fingertips barely brushing yours as he handed you the clean dishes after dinner to put away in the cupboards, his easy, bright, infections smile as he regaled the amusing story of the old lady that came into the shop. The thought, the _feeling_ that you wanted to kiss him had just…struck you. And you did. Lips pressing against the soft, full, contours of his for a brief moment. You exhaled sharply in satisfaction, eyes slipping closed in pleasure as his hands wandered down to your hips to hold you.

After what seemed like several blissful hours, you eyelids had fluttered open to meet his startled gaze. Henry mumbled sincere apologies, for what you had no idea. Pulling away, he practically fled out the door of the flat before you could even get over the wonderful taste of him against your tongue.

In the hours it had taken for him to arrive home after that incident, you had curled up guiltily in bed and awoke to find him sleeping on the couch the next morning. Evaded conversations and awkward distances, where once had been comfortable silence and easy camaraderie, ensued, and in the following days his arrangements to have you escorted out of London had taken on a renewed vigour.

Sighing heavily again, you take a deep breath, which was a mistake. Lying in his bed, the fragrant sandalwood and jasmine smell of him was all around you. This is the last night you will spend here, in this flat, in this bed. You wonder; would you ever get to see Henry again? Once he handed you into the care of others would he leave it at that and forget about you and all the trouble you had undoubtedly caused him?

You fret whether he would come back to the flat tonight at all, after dropping the painful news that everything was ready and you could catch a train to Crawley in the morning to be met at the station by other assassins. Perhaps he would simply continue to avoid you until that time as he had done for many days now, that's certainly what you would do.

Fingers curl against the bedspread as you fight back tears, you will never get to sleep with all the guilty thoughts churning through your mind, and not to mention that kiss. That kiss was...was _everything_. The touch of him had lingered in your consciousness for days now.

You cup your breasts through the flimsy shirt fabric, palming them until your nipples stiffen, brushing enticingly against the soft cotton. You take a peak between your fingers and pinch lightly, enough for a small sigh of satisfaction to escape your lips.

If this is the last night that you will sleep here then you will leave with happy memories. You will indulge yourself one last time.

Shifting you allow your thighs to fall open, shirt hem rising as you squirm on the bed. You imagine Henry, those long, soft fingers, sliding the garment up over your curves, his gaze intense on you. His mouth captures yours in a passionate kiss, his warm, strong, body pressed against the line of yours as he pins you to his bed.

Closing your eyes, your fingers slip under the hem into your underwear, tugging them aside to gently stroke the outer lips of your pussy, teasing yourself as you would imagine that he would tease you. Your breathing increases as your hips arch off the bed, seeking more, heels digging into the soft mattress.

Henry's lips are on you, hot and heavy breath mixing with yours as he plunders your mouth with skill. You let out a soft moan, imagining the supple curve of his lip trailing yours again and the gentle scratch of his stubble against your skin. He would feel so incredibly good, the weight of him pinning you, pressing between your legs, undulating along the length of your body.

His inquisitive, sensitive, fingers would plunder lower, teasing along your thighs, your lips on route to your centre where he knows he will get the best reaction from you.

Biting your lip hard, you try in vain to conceal your deep moans. You can smell him, you can practically _taste_ him, and you swear in that moment you can feel Henry warm and solid against you. Your fingers continue top stroke your clit in time with your fantasy, gently at first, pressing a little harder as your nerves begin to tingle and your clit pulses with your own racing heartbeat.

In your mind Henry writhes against you, his lips against your cheek, your neck, your collar, anywhere he can reach while his fingers seek out the moist heat between your legs. Cupping one breast you tease the heavier flesh, thumbing your straining nipple as you imagine he would do, while your other fingers press urgently against your centre, driving you closer to the edge.

Your thighs shake, muscles coiled and tense as you edge yourself to climax. Your body fills with pleasure like a cup fills with liquid, ever closer to the brim with just one more push...panting hard you renew your efforts, fingers dancing over your body but behind your closed eyes it's Henry's dark fingers pushing against you, coaxing you to completion, his soft voice murmuring praise in your ear.

A burst of coloured stars flashes behind your eyelids as you cum, orgasm rippling through your body, leaving you gasping and sagging languidly against the bed. You can't help his name escaping your throat and that moment. As soon as 'Henry...' leaves your lips there is an unexpectedly large and loud _thud_.

You startle, eyes wide, glancing around the room for the source of the noise until they finally rest on the bedroom doorway. Henry's white assassin robes seem to shine in the dim evening light, a pile of books that he must have been carrying were strewn at his feet. His expression is wide eyed shock.

'I-I…' He bumbles, mouth open but barely and sound coming out.

Your throat dries, your body still pleasurable tingly from your orgasm is fast turning to embarrassment as you can only watch his open mouthed shock, unable to mutter any kind of excuse.

Henry turns and flees the doorway and you let out a deep breath you hadn’t realised that you had been holding.

Well, shit.

How long had he been there? Had he seen and heard it all? Not only had you tried to kiss the poor man, forcing him from his own home, you now do him the dishonour of masturbating on his bed.

You mentally kick yourself. You thought things couldn’t have gotten much worse, and how wrong you were. 

A small movement at the corner of your eye causes your gaze to drift back to the doorway where, a still very stunned looking, Mr Green returns. He licks his lips, standing very still, watching you lying on the bed. His mouth opens but no sound comes out so he closes it with an almost audible click. After a few moments he tries again.

'You said my name!' He blurts out, swallowing back further exclamation.

You can hear your own pulse thumping in your ear, what could you say, what defence did you have for what you had been doing? Before you get any chance to reply he disappears from view again, probably fleeing the flat, the building, the entire city even, anything to get away from you, and you wouldn’t blame him.

Slumping back against the pillows, body tingling and mind hazy, the blissful afterglow of your orgasm is subsiding quickly into mind-numbing dread at having to face poor Henry again, if you ever got the chance. A kiss would have been so much less embarrassing to explain away and ignore.

The flash of white robes barrels unexpectedly through the doorway. Crossing the room with speed, Henry alights the bed with effortless ease, jostling you as the mattress dips under his weight. Soon, his firm body covers yours, pressing you into the soft bedding as a large hand cups your cheek, puling you towards his lips and hungrily devouring you. 

'You said my name.' He mumbles awestricken, between fevered kisses.

You’re still dreaming, you have to be still dreaming and playing this out as a fantasy. This couldn't be happening. 

His touch was even better than you imagined his kisses more delicious. Henry’s tongue gently slips between your lips dancing with your own as a hand skims eagerly down your body, curling around your hip and pulling you impossibly close against him.

You find yourself moaning eagerly, body arching up against the line of his, silently begging for more. He settles so snuggly, so comfortably, between your open legs it’s like he was always meant to fit there.

Small noises of pleasure rumble low in his throat, encouraging eager responses from your own. You can’t get enough of his mouth, those lips against you, the taste of the distinctive chamomile tea that he always drinks dripping from his tongue. Your fingers lightly skim along his upper arms, kneading the toned muscles of his biceps through the cloth. The fine hairs at the back of his neck are soft and wispy, but you delight in running your fingers through the thick, silky hair on his head as Henry attacks your jaw and neckline with teeth and tongue.

He practically purrs as you stroke him. 'You...want me?' He seems disbelieving, even as the pair of you are entwined together on his bed, your body and mouth encouraging more from him.

Of course you want him. You have wanted him for weeks now, but didn’t have the courage to speak out.

'Don't send me away.' You plead, not knowing what else to say, or how to confess your true feelings for this wonderfully generous man.

'No.' He shakes his head in agreement and you practically sag against him in relief. 'I don't want to, didn't want to but...I didn't want to take advantage. I didn't want you to think you owed me this, anything for my help. But you-' He dips his head, warm amber eyes shying away embarrassedly from your gaze. '-You were touching yourself.  Thinking of...me?'

You can only nod, still acutely embarrassed at being caught doing that. Dragging his face back to yours, you kiss him again, never wanting him to stop providing those amazingly narcotic kisses he seems so capable of.

'I love you.' You whisper against his lips, afraid of your own confession and that you are pushing things too far, yet again, but Henry’s hands continue to skim lower, circling your thighs and pushing the long hem of nightshirt upwards towards your waist.

He gives you a devastatingly melting shy smile, eyes alight with pleasure. 'And I you.' 

Goosebumps ripple across your freshly exposed skin as the fabric of his clothing caresses your bared flesh. Henry wriggles downwards, kisses fleeting down your neck, your collar. When he comes to fabric he continues kissing, mouth leaving damp patches of cotton sticking against your skin.

You watch him meander down your body with eagerness, anticipating where he was so obviously headed, unable to process that this is now your reality and not just another absurd fantasy of your own mind. Henry manages to hike your shirt further up to your belly button, exposing your naked lower body. His mouth his tantalisingly close to your sex, each breath ticking across your mound and drawing shaky, eagerly anticipating, breaths from you. You watch him with wide eyes as he parts your legs wider to accommodate those broad shoulders. Just the feeling of his strong fingers against the smooth skin of your inner thigh is enough to have you wriggling, ripple of pleasure squirming down to your toes. You swallow hard as he strokes a forefinger gently through your wet fold, and your hips arch off the bed following his touch eagerly.

'You are very wet.' He purrs lowly, with an uncharacteristic devilish smirk. 'So wet. And you were thinking of me?' He teases, finger trailing a distractingly delicate path around the hood of your clit.

Watching him down the line of your body, you bit your lip at such an erotic sight. 'You know I was.'

He smiles, all shining white teeth, gaze dipping almost shyly as he positions you just level with his mouth. With aching precision his tongue slips between the outer folds of your pussy seeking more sensitive skin beneath. His tongue laps, teases, drawing pleasure with each caress. Small, eager noises escape his mouth, reverberating through your sensitive flesh.

Strong fingers curl around your hips, holding you firmly in place as the stimulation has you practically bucking off of the bed.

Your pussy throbs, clit tingling as he sucks on the sensitive nub, tongue lapping at you as if he is tasting something delicious.

Dexterous fingers suddenly probe at your entrance, teasing you further, making your hips wriggle for more. Henry slips a long finger inside of you, probing along your sensitive inner walls as his tongue continues its delicious torture.

You feel the tension in his body, his excitement and renewed eagerness as you unabashedly moan his name.

‘More. Please!’ You beg, and he doesn’t disappoint, sustaining the wonderful pressure between your legs as if he has all the time in the world. It’s too much, better than anything you were doing to yourself. Just having his body against yours, his mouth softly working you over, those long fingers pushing their way into you is more than you can bear.

Your hips buck upwards, demanding more from him. With a grin Henry pins your lower body with all the strength of his upper body, allowing him to work. You trail your fingers though his hair, and he doesn’t seem to mind when you tug, pulling back the long locks so that you can see his face clearly.

Long eyelashes frame his cheeks; his eyes are closed; lost in the pleasure of you. Henry’s murmurs of pleasure reverberate through his mouth and through your swollen flesh, adding to your stimulation. He curls his hands under your backside, drawing you closer, throwing your thighs over his shoulders so that he can pull you closer.

You practically curl your body around him, trying desperately hard not to pull his hair or squeeze too tightly with your thighs, but he’s just so very good that every muscles seems to be twitching all on its own.

After what feels like hours of exquisite torture, he twists his fingers just the right way, tongue just in the right spot that your orgasm releases with a violent gasp from low in your throat as you twitch around him.

Sagging against the bed, Henry teases you with a few almost-painful after kisses, meandering his way back up your body, uncaring if there’s the fine sheen of sweat littering your skin and the fact that you are panting uncontrollably underneath him.

He reaches your jawline and you anticipate your favourite part coming; his kiss. Full lips against yours, his tongue dips ever so slightly into yours to feed you your own taste.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull Henry closer, never wanting to stop kissing him now that you have him.

Its frenzied, and intense, both of you practically wrestling just to get that little bit closer, rubbing your body the length of his for just a little more stimulation. Your kiss can’t get any deeper, as if you are eating each other from the mouth downwards, weeks of pent up tension and denying any sort of feelings ebbing away to be replaced by a need to be as inside of one another as possible.

The intricate robes of his clothing brush your sensitive skin as he writhes and bucks against you. A sharp metallic sound has you still suddenly and Henry’s body freezes above you. He pulls his lips away from yours as you both gaze to the pillow at your side. Whatever position he must have gotten in has triggered the hidden blade and the sharp knife cut into the pillow sending feathers fluttering through the air.

Henry looks horrified. ‘I’m sorry; obviously these are not designed to be used during more pleasurable activities.’

You nod, a little shaken at how close you came to being skewered.

‘Let me get rid of these.’ He insists quickly, pulling back to sit on the edge of the bed and begin stripping off the complicated layers of his clothing.

The offending metal weapons clatter to the rug covered floor with a soft clank.

Impatient, you move to help, insinuating yourself onto his lap and straddling his thighs to offer encouraging kisses for him to hurry. You need his clothing off; you need him naked and his nakedness against you.

Henry kisses you in-between attempting to shrug off intricate layers, belts, over tunics and hoods. He laughs good naturedly as his task is made all the more complicated by you squirming in his lap and the desire to continue kissing him.

‘If you will just give me but a moment, then this would work a lot faster.’ He scolds good naturedly, but you are already wriggling your hands under his tunic, seeking the warm skin of the bare skin at his stomach and waist.

Henry groans into your kisses as your inquisitive palms finally come into contact with his bare skin and begin exploring, tracing his ribs, his stomach, up across his pectorals.

It’s not long before you are tugging his white tunic over his head, leaving him bare from the complicated sashed waist up.

You run your palms over his shoulders, delighting in the feeling of smooth skin, tracing his collar, enjoying squeezing the firm flexing bicep under your touch as you continue to explore his body. You can feel every taught muscle, every sinew straining against you as his body bucks upwards jostling you in his lap.

Henry’s excitement is evident, his cock, still trapped by his trousers, straining beneath you.

You run your nails lightly across his chest and Henry groans into your mouth, eyes fluttering open and smirking as he pulls away from your kiss briefly, but soon resumes his animate exploration of the inside of your mouth. You can feel the dampness from between your legs soak in to the fabric of his trousers as you thrust your hips against him, seeking something more.

Henry lifts you from his lap, depositing you on the bed while he stands, just long enough to impatiently tug off the remainder of his clothing and leave in an uncharacteristically disarrayed heap on the floor.

His body is amazing, taught and toned under those layers, dark hair gracing his chest and stomach, trailing lower to frame his manhood. You marvel at the dim candle light shining off of his skin, the lean waist tapering to solid thighs and the little hollow at the base of his spine flaring out to a very impressive pert backside.

You get to watch the smooth, effortless play of his muscles as he alights the bed again, crawling towards you. His fingers curl around your waist, dragging you closer with ease as he nestles above you.

Moaning, you arch into his touch as the warm naked line of his body finally caresses against your nakedness. He seems determined to explore every inch of your bare skin with his mouth and hands, barely giving you a chance to do the same with him.

You are just getting used to him settling on top of you, pressing urgently between your legs when Henry pulls away, earning a small moan of disappointment from you. He grins at your protest but doesn’t go far, easing himself back into a sitting position, he sits cross legged on the bed, eagerly pulling you into his lap.

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and legs around his waist, you whimper as you sink down onto him, his cock filling you in one smooth motion. It’s an incredible feeling, being so intimately close to him, his arms wrapped around you, keeping you safe.

Henry’s mouth skims down your taut throat and across your collar as you arch in his arms, hips buking in an attempt to create some sort of movement and friction, when he seems so happy just to be inside of you and wrapped in your embrace.

You rotate your hips in slow circles, loving the feeling of him brushing every inch inside of you.

Henry’s mouth wanders down to your breasts, nuzzling the heavier flesh before capturing a peaking nipple between his lips and sucking gently. His actions have you writhing against him, fingers curling through his thick, dark, hair and crushing him against your breast, desperate for more sensation. He teases your nipples mercilessly with his mouth, grinning against your skin when you moan and pant for him.

Strong hands grab two very firm handfuls of your backside and squeeze playfully, earning a giggle from you and deep chuckle from him. He uses this leverage to pull you towards him, effectively bouncing you in his lap and you moan for him as he thrusts into your eager body with no resistance.

The sensations he is eliciting from you is incredible, you pretty much couldn’t get any closer in his embrace and he feels so wonderfully deep inside of you.

He lets you lean backwards, palms bracing against the bed while he keeps a firm grip on your waist, drawing you down onto his waiting cock as your hips rotate and buck against his.

You can feel the increasing tension of orgasm tightening low in your abdomen, Henry’s enthusiastic groans of encouragement spurring you on. From your position it’s easy to sneak a hand down between your bodies, fingertips teasing your clit in time with his strokes.

You whimper for more as he dips his head, capturing your peaking nipple in his mouth, grinning in pleasure at the gentle bounce and sway of your body against his.

You can’t hold out much longer, watching him enter you, mouth working against your breasts is too much. Your inner muscles squirm and tighten around his cock, desperately seeking the final spark that will end your torment.

Its Henry’s low, desperate, gasps indicating his own orgasm that finally tips you over the edge. Even as his own satisfied body stills, your own hips still continue to thrust against him, fingertips teasing your engorged clit for just a few more strokes until you are a quivering, panting, mess around him.

 

 

Henry pulls you close to his chest as he eases both of you back against the pillows, tired and sated, to doze off you energetic bout of lovemaking.

You happily curl around him, tucking your head against his shoulder as he wraps you in his arms, humming contentedly.

‘You are sure that you are quite happy here?’ He asks, voice tinged with a small amount of doubt.

You nod and smile at him, cheerful and optimistic for the future for the first time in ages. Running you palm idly over his chest, you stretch against him, angling your head up to his for a kiss, which he is only too eager to provide, his exuberant grin back in place now that he is assured you want him.

You murmur, ‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’


End file.
